


A Mystic Antiquarian and the Brooding Bloodletter

by AnubiaMun



Series: A Mystic Antiquarian and the Brooding Bloodletter [1]
Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-10
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-05-04 18:58:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14599587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnubiaMun/pseuds/AnubiaMun
Summary: She filled her emptiness with valuables.He filled his emptiness with booze.This a tale of two cynics.





	A Mystic Antiquarian and the Brooding Bloodletter

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you Nix Hydra for the inspiration. I can't wait for the next book! I promise, there will be a lot more interactions between the lovely characters of The Arcana.

Chapter 1

Peering over the edge, I watch the rippling pool reflect the glinting light from the speckled sky above, creating an otherworldly mirror below. A prison for those trapped within. I couldn't help being mesmerized in the whorls within its depths. Losing myself in the movement, I reminisced about my past.  
Age works differently here, compared to the land of my birth. There is something in the air, bubbling over this place, separating Vesuvia from the rest of the world.  


I sat, reeling, along the very edge of the aqueduct, careful to keep my limbs far from the swirling, almost transparent mass, writhing below the surface.  
People here just don't age quickly. I mean, physically, many folks here look like fresh beaten hell, but that's understandable. I'm certain the widespread death that swept their closest companions right from their grasps, have weathered their once joyous faces. And I suspect, although unspoken, most of the elderly that have survived here have watched the sun rise and set for over a century. I am not the only one who dabbles (Okay, fine. Practice obsessively), in the art of magic.  


Wrapping my fingers firmly around a stout and hefty tree branch, I slowly lower it into the water, watching the bark darken with wet, as the wiggling mass untangles to glide in circles around the intruder. The waters are far too warm and shallow to thrive. They don't belong here.  
But neither do I.  


They were imported to the waters around the Vesuvian Palace, partially for the protection and safety of the Countess and Count, who call the palace their home. Beyond the initial shell of a reason, they were imprisoned in a habitat most unnatural because the Count's lavish and excessive tastes demands it. Well, I should say demanded. His preferences as a fierce benevolent collector of extravagant oddities and arts have drastically calmed since then. Perhaps because it's particularly difficult to want anything when you're dead.  


I couldn't take my eyes off the vampire eels below. I sat, hoping one would latch itself to the oaky invader, so I might lift it for a closer inspection. My hope was much in vain. They knew better, as did I. I wouldn't chance a bite from the needled fangs anyways. A single bite would spell death for those unfortunate enough to experience it. An insult added, knowing you would watch your own blood through its translucent skin, cycle within it and fill the belly of the eel, as your body is sucked dry. Such fascinating creatures.  


I don't believe Count Lucio's desires were too harebrained. I can understand the hunger to have in your possession the finest wares. The strangest trinkets. The pieces that cause whispers of jealousy to trickle from ear to ear. I understand, because I too have that hunger. My home, much to the dismay of the very limited few I allow in, (both metaphorically and literally) is cluttered to the brim with knick knacks from distant worlds. Spices, herbs and potions line the few shelves I have. Toys and baubles from far away lands litter my drawers, and paintings from ancient artists fill my walls. If I opened my home the way the Count did, there would also be talk of my collections. Also, like the count, I too might be dead. My collection did not accumulate through the trading of money. I am much too poor for that. Many of these items became mine, through trickery and stealth. I am often a thief.  


My father shared the same hunger. Taking where he could, from whatever lands he may, and reveling in each treasures' uniqueness. He had a particular fondness for collecting items of beauty. A refined taste in women, he preferred his partners to have the complexion of the highest quality olive oil. Skin like the most luscious silk, and eyes rich with endless color. Above all, he always found the most significance in a name. He always said to me that the meaning of a name carries weighty importance. My mother was his most prized possession, worshipping the very ground she danced across, and provided her with answers to every desire she may ever request. She was the very essence of everything he loved in a woman. Everything he loved about himself. Her enchanting name rolling off his tongue with ease. Her quick wit and adoring smile left him breathless.  


Not nearly as breathless as he is now. He too, is dead.  


I drag the branch out of the water and drop it on the ground. I stand up to brush off my skirt and knees, pulling grass from my legs, knowing that it will find its way to my most delicate clothes, and stick even through multiple wash days. I continued to wander up the banks of the aqueduct, glancing out over the water at the horizon, where the world meets the sky. The trickling red mixing with the flora, and weeping into the aqueduct, served to remind me of the loss this city suffered. The loss I suffered. A poisonous reminder of one of the most devastating diseases to ravage Vesuvia, decimating without discrimination. Young, old, rich, poor. It didn't matter. The red plague wiped them all out.  


After my birth, my mother's body became barren. She was unable to provide my father with any more children. At this point, she no longer had value to him, so he spent many of his days, beyond the walls of our home, searching for valuables that could fill whatever void existed in him. Our home fell apart. He brought us no income. Instead he spent it abroad, on booze and women. He came home for some time, probably due to the immense amount of guilt he felt for leaving my mother alone to raise me while weak from the plague. I grew, caring for my mother as her illness took hold. I remember patting her head with a damp cloth, as she dipped in and out of consciousness, and her sclera changed from a healthy white, to a crimson red.  
The day my mother drew her last breath, was a week after my father drew his. Except, I had no idea, for he left again on one of his soul-searching adventures. Word travels slowly. From what the city guards told me months later, was that his body was found, gutted in an alley, several cities away, over a bad appraisal of some goods another man thought had worth. My father had quite the tongue, which often got him into trouble. My mother often said that would be his undoing. At this time, the Red Plague was rampant. No chances could be taken with infection. To minimize transmission, all bodies, including his was treated as contaminated, and burned to ash. So, my mother died, with just her young child by her side, in a sordid, dilapidated home, while my father never had the chance to come home. Not even in a casket.  


I mustered all my misery and loathing into a great ball of energy, forming from my finger tips and joining at the center of my palm. The sphere crackled and popped in hues of blues and white, ready to disjoin itself from my hand. Throwing my hand forward, with a morose, but satisfied smile on my face, I witnessed my magic find a new home with a fiery plant, into the decaying vegetation, meters away, leaving my mark as a perfectly annular brand in the soil.  


I hate death and destruction, but tonight... Tonight I am a sullen wench.  


I continued to stumble along the length of the water line, listening to the sounds of the forest, songs from the creatures of the night. My eye sight zeroed in on my feet, my mind distracted in a far off world.  


"Julian!"  


My moment to myself shattered, when from across the water way, I hear a soft voice, followed by another delicate whisper, carried on the gently breeze in my direction.  


"...Fickle thing, life, isn't it?"  


I could only hear bits and pieces of the conversation, but I also was not interested in the words of strangers. The tidbits I did get, were unwanted to say the least. That is, until I came closer to the sources of voice.  


The moments glimpse I earned, stilled me to my core. I stared in awe at one of the two figures across the way. His body language was languid, but he stood tall in stature, and his hair a crisp auburn, like a pyre ablaze. His alabaster skin within clothing, fashionable, but professional. Form fitting in blacks, with accenting buttons along his jacket, and red flashing from beneath his cloak. And by gods, resting within his hands, reflecting starlight from the beautiful matte white finish angling from its beak, was the most wonderous piece of treasure I have ever laid eyes on. This mask, no doubt from the looks of the man holding it, was as authentic a plague doctor's mask, as they come. The hunger with me growled fiercely. I NEEDED it.  


"...So here I am. Throwing away the last piece of past I can't reclaim..." I catch his words, as I witness him drop the mask from his hands, into the reservoir, allowing it to sink into its depths, along with my heart. I stood, my mouth agape. I couldn't believe what he had just done. A raven cries from above. A sign, or an omen.  


"YOU FUCKING IDIOT..." I clasped my hands over my mouth, in disbelief of the utterance from my own throat. Both the man and his friend, look up in surprise. His wide eyes met mine for a brief, unspoken conversation, as her eyes lifted further to view the raven flying in circles. Muttering something to his companion, he turns tail to run towards the streets of the city below us, eyes locking with mine in fascination as he zips past. His lanky form bounds gracefully down the length of the aqueducts, while his companion teeters upon the edge.  


A saturnine smile crept across my face, as I snapped my fingers, influencing her imbalance, by enchanting a few stones, in the direction of the churning waters below. I shrugged my shoulders. I hope she can swim.  


My name is Femi Von Amunet. It is a name that swells with mystery, wealth, fortune, love and whatever else there may be in the manner of grotesquely positive, that my father thought a name should have. A name rich with ancient history and family. And the irony of it all, has not been lost on me.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you've enjoyed the beginning of a riveting story regarding two broody idiots.  
> I haven't creatively written in several years. Yeeeeeeaaaaaaars. As I write, I'll get more comfortable. So, I'm all for constructive criticism, suggestions, or requests, but please remember, I am a squishy marshmallow. Please leave your thoughts and comments. :)


End file.
